


Sin With No Name

by NoelleAngelFyre



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: A dangerous affair, Breaking and Entering, F/M, Guns and Bullwhips, Not-quite-first kiss, sliding down a slippery slope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 04:41:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12904296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: "Want me to kiss it better?"





	Sin With No Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [virtueofvice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/virtueofvice/gifts).
  * Inspired by [No Heroes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4915075) by [virtueofvice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/virtueofvice/pseuds/virtueofvice). 



> This is a gift for virtueofvice, who got me aboard this unconventional ship. If you haven't read "No Heroes" (specifically Chapter 21, from whence this all began), I recommend you do so. Not just because it would help give some context to this piece, but because it's one of Virtue's finest pieces and demands to be adored.
> 
> Title inspired by "Dangerous Game" from Jekyll & Hyde (the musical).

“A little girl playing dress-up,” the reflection proclaims; a sneer ruins features which otherwise present as young, even lovely, “that’s what you are.”

Eyes blink, twice, and the sneer is gone. In its place: exhaustion.

Never the most self-reflective of persons, and more likely to find great fault with those who are, the sunset hour finds Selina Kyle doing exactly that: studying herself quite literally in and out.

The end result is less than satisfactory.

Uttering a curse moderately unfit for one of her youthful chronology, she grabs the first bit of clothing accessible (color-coordination and weather-appropriateness be damned, evidenced by the determination to wear leggings and no sleeves in one of Gotham’s bi-weekly spring storms) and shoves a switchblade in her left boot. Then, head high in defiance, marches straight into the rain.

Spring showers such as these are less about hydrating Mother Earth and more to the purpose of drowning the idiot dumb enough to walk outside in one. Icy to first contact and bearing the gentility of a chainsaw, the torrent takes great pleasure in showcasing the impracticality of her chosen attire and, further, reminding of every available roof (including the one recently departed) under which she could easily sulk.

But Selina Kyle holds fast to two great qualities: an unparalleled ability to flip the proverbial finger at common sense, and a dignified tendency to be dramatic—solely for the sake of making an impression.

After the first two puddles, her feet begin to lose feeling. A loose rafter chooses the precise moment she happens under it to break, after how-many months of behaving itself, and provides an additional shower free of charge. Three blocks to the east, she catches the edge of a craterous pothole (these streets have been shot-up, blown up, and otherwise dismantled too many times, and no one in this city is dumb enough to try arguing for repairs which will be blown up two weeks after the fact). She executes a crafty little pirouette to save her ankle, but turns too fast and knocks her mouth against a rusted-out drain pipe. 

Defiance is the blood in her veins, but even she can take the hint which so kindly keeps punching her in the face tonight. Spitting out the blood from her split lip, she turns a corner and heads back home.

What, exactly, she was trying to accomplish with this little excursion, Selina hasn’t the faintest idea. Whatever she intended, it failed spectacularly. She made an idiot of herself. Better to have stayed home and pouted alone. At least she would be dry.

 _“I am tired of not being taken seriously.”_ Her words, sounding far more determined, even vicious, than she feels in this moment, trickle over the downpour. She remembers this conversation: remembers the righteous anger, the ruthless pursuit of something better, something _more_. A desperate effort to step into the snug embrace of black leather, bullwhip coiled thick at her waist, and have it mean something beyond a cute little costume.

She kicks her soaked boots off at the door and marches silently across an empty loft. To spite the Fates, she leaves the light off and reaches for her hemline with full intentions of dropping into bed stark-naked, still dripping rain water.

“Hi there.”

Her hand flies for the light switch: a perfectly sensible reaction. The shriek which punches out of her lungs is a little more embarrassing.

“ _Enough_ with the screaming.” Victor Zsasz is in her room, in the dark; he’s sitting on her bed. Selina needs that bed, right now, unoccupied, and the bastard is using it as a perch. “We’re not in a horror movie here.”

“Get _out_!” she throws a hand at the door; if she thought it might actually amount to something, she’d grab him by the lapels and chuck him out the window instead.

He blinks, like some innocent baby-face with a gun holster, and cocks his head to one side. “That’s rather unkind.” As though breaking-and-entering is a fricking act of charity. “I was just stopping in to check on you.”

She glares at him, just because she’s out of things to say. Well, she has a few things to say, but none of them are particularly civilized. Right now, all she cares about is getting him off her bed and out of her room. Problem is, the only way she might do exactly that is with her bullwhip. And it’s lying on the floor. Across the room.

She’ll start sleeping with it under her pillow.

“Oh dear me,” his voice, much clearer than before, thrums in her ears; she blinks, and he’s right there, much closer than before…maybe she could bite him, right in the face, “you hurt yourself.”

 _What?_ Oh, right: her mouth. His thumb taps her lower lip: mocking, taunting her inability to keep herself from random injury. Her teeth snap, catching the fingertip without prelude. He smirks and presses into the wound. It stings. She growls.

“No need for that.” Zsasz croons. His thumb runs, slowly, across her lip; thoughtful expression, contemplative gaze. “That looks like it hurts. Want me to kiss it better?”

“Screw off.” She snarls. It lacks the heat she hoped for, which means it does nothing to deter him. Although, if their past encounters (which she doesn’t think about, ever…not once) have proven anything, it’s that even a snippy tone doesn’t bother Victor Zsasz. Might even encourage him.

 _Does_ encourage him.

“Hush.” He says. He’s way too close. Blue eyes, much too dark. Smells of copper and gunpowder. His thumb keeps tracing her lip: back and forth, back and forth. Then—

—his thumb is gone. His lips, his mouth, right there.

(She remembers the last time he kissed her. She hates that she remembers; how clearly she remembers.)

The kiss feels like a mockery: slow brushing, yet deliberate and calculated because the man does nothing without planning every step ahead. There isn’t a blatant invitation to respond, when he commands it and offers no indication that he requires further input on her part; at the same time, the tease of it all implies exactly that: a beckoning, crooked finger and sultry smirk, to come closer, to get more…

His tongue brushes the split, way too slowly, then glides along the seam of her yet-to-part lips. Another invitation. He takes his time, and with each second ticking by, her aggravation crumbles into something else. Something that doesn’t have a proper name. Something terrifying, and horrible, and…and…

Zsasz—Victor—slides away from her; lowers with feline (the irony isn’t lost on her) grace, stretching out along her bedcovers. Black leather and tailored suit jacket: a panther—and yet she feels like Eve in the garden, serpent whispering temptation in her ear. The gleam in his eyes, the thin smile curling across his mouth…

Her knees hit the mattress edge first. The rest of her follows quickly.

He’s impossibly long, strong even when prostrate: his muscles are firm, lean, solid. Pressed close, stretched atop each other, he feels overwhelmingly strong: a force of nature that can’t be tamed, can’t be predicted, and equally can’t be resisted. His mouth is warm; his lips smooth, comfortable in experience which she has yet to claim for her own. If sin has a taste, it flourishes in his mouth, on his tongue.

Hands, cool leather and heat, slide up: bare arms to shoulders. She feels them like breath ghosting in the dark. One slips further, curling around her nape; long fingers weave in the damp curls, playing like a kitten does its yarn.

Everything about him is snug: the fit of his jacket, pants tailored every inch, the stretch of leather over palms and fingers. She can't tell where his clothes end and he begins, or if it's all just him: every seam, every inch. His guns press into her clavicle; a threat she can dance fingertips over and not fear consequence. She’ll be bruised come morning. It doesn’t stop her, this tidbit of awareness, from pressing closer.

His other hand, slides beneath a hemline: palm flat, splayed across the dip of her spine, lower hips. The ascent is deliberately slow, marked by fingers which, like those at her nape, trace patterns too patient to be random. Long strokes, each sends tingles along her nerves; old paths familiar—

Her scars.

She lurches backwards. The haste threatens her balance, the cool air disorienting after heat (too much heat), but the wall is loyal and catches her weight before she can further humiliate herself. The hand clamped over her mouth inhibits her desperate gulp of air while capturing the tingle of a kiss (one kiss after another, each bleeding into the next) against her lips.

Victor—Zsasz—Victor—reclines on propped elbows. He alone is composed, satisfaction dripping from his lips. She hates him for it.

“Does it feel better now?” he murmurs, and she could just scratch his face off.

“ _Out_.” She says. It’s about the only sensible thing she’s done (or said) tonight.

He doesn’t even have the decency to look offended; just shrugs and slides off the bed. Takes his time doing it, adjusting hems and lapels which don’t even need it. Smooths the front of his jacket, like she made such a mess of him. Bastard.

He steps closer, too close, and rests lips at her ear. Kisses beneath her jaw.

“I’ll be seeing you, Selina.”


End file.
